


come what will

by brinnanza



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Daisy's Scottish Honeymoon Safehouse, Fluff, M/M, Tender Nighttime Hand Holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: He doesn’t realize he’s reaching out to touch until his fingers brush against Jon’s warm skin. Jon turns to look at Martin, that familiar little furrow in his brow, head tilted. Martin runs his fingertip over the scar, a barely-there touch that’s more of a breath than a kiss. “What’s this?”Jon’s skin is too dark to show a blush, but Martin can see it anyway in the way he ducks his head, letting his hair hide his face. “It’s a scar, Martin,” he says, but his voice is a pale imitation of his old sharp sarcasm. There is too much fondness in it now to sting.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 10
Kudos: 304





	come what will

**Author's Note:**

> here's whatever this is!! this started out as a very tender interlude where martin gently smooches jon's scars and then halfway through it. wasn't that anymore. anyway this is reasonably fluffy so. I had "promises" from hadestown in mind while writing this, specifically "keep on walking, come what will" so.

They’re changing for bed when Martin spots it, a thin, jagged scar running down Jon’s bicep. Martin has spent more time than he cares to admit memorizing Jon, the fall of his grey-streaked hair, the jut of his pursed lips, his collection of scars, but he doesn’t recognize this one. It’s still pale pink, not yet faded to the mottled brown of the circular scars scattered across his skin or the fingers laid across the back of his hand. It must be recent, then, an injury sustained while Martin was secreted away in isolation.

He doesn’t realize he’s reaching out to touch until his fingers brush against Jon’s warm skin. Jon turns to look at Martin, that familiar little furrow in his brow, head tilted. Martin runs his fingertip over the scar, a barely-there touch that’s more of a breath than a kiss. “What’s this?”

Jon’s skin is too dark to show a blush, but Martin can see it anyway in the way he ducks his head, letting his hair hide his face. “It’s a scar, Martin,” he says, but his voice is a pale imitation of his old sharp sarcasm. There is too much fondness in it now to sting.

“Yes, I can see that,” Martin says dryly, and his voice too has changed, lost some soft deference that used to color all of his words. “How’d you get it?”

Jon shrugs and pulls on his sleep shirt, covering the scar once more. “Who can keep track?”

Martin may not be able to know things from the ether, knowledge granted by some dread power, but he knows Jon. He knows what a lie looks like in the tense set of his shoulders. “You, generally.”

“What difference does it make?”

“None,” Martin says simply. The origin of this single scar will have no impact on any of the things hunting them, won’t prepare them for whatever awaits or hide them from all-seeing eyes. It’s not important. “But I’d still like to know, if you’re willing to tell me.”

And it’s not the Eye that makes Martin curious, not anymore, and not about this. He has always wanted to know Jon. All of him, inside and out; every scar, every fear, every single banal little detail that makes up the sum total of Jonathan Sims until Martin can paint it from memory. He can’t _do_ anything, can only wait and hope and survive, clinging to each new piece of Jon as it reveals itself. He’d gladly spend his life doing just that, learning Jon in a tiny Scottish cabin and being learned in return.

For now, though, he will settle for a single scar.

“Alright,” says Jon softly, once they’ve both finished getting ready for bed. “I’ll tell you. If you really want to know.”

“I do,” says Martin. He turns out the light and climbs into bed beside Jon. It’s only just barely wide enough for the two of them to lie side by side, neither of them is interested in distance anymore. Martin rolls onto his side and Jon does the same; in the dark, Martin can only barely make out the planes of Jon’s face, the glint of his eyes, but he already knows it by heart.

“Right.” Jon shifts a little, and Martin can imagine the little frown on his mouth as he summons a more professional demeanor, even way out in the Scottish highlands, far away from the Magnus Institute. “Well. I suppose - I should preface this by saying that I don’t blame her, and neither should you. The Slaughter had quite a grip on her at that point.” He hesitates. 

“Mmhmm?” Martin prompts.

“Melanie sort of… stabbed me?”

“She ‘sort of’ stabbed you,” Martin echoes.

“Well, she intended to stab me, but she was still a bit hazy from the sleeping pills, and I managed to get away from her.”

Martin waits, but Jon doesn’t elaborate. “Sounds like there’s quite a story there.” Another long pause, filled only by restless shifting. Martin lets out a sigh. “Why don’t you make me a statement, Mr. Archivist?”

So Jon does. The truth lies somewhere between his more optimistic daydreams and his terror-fueled nightmares, as it often does. A ghost bullet did explain some things that Martin had naively blamed on sheer desperation. 

“Tell me another,” Martin says when Jon has finished. “Something else that happened to you while I was… gone. I want to know… everything. Anything.”

“You first,” says Jon. “I know - I heard a lot of the broad strokes, as it were, of when I was… indisposed.” _Dead_ , Martin’s mind fills in, unbidden. He pushes the thought away; Jon is here now, close enough that Martin can feel the heat of him. “I - I heard about your mother. I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be,” Martin says. It seems like ages ago now, time distorted by the months of constant, unceasing fog. There is fog within him still, a layer of insulation against a grief that might otherwise consume him. He’s not sure if he should be grateful for it or if he’s only tempting the Lonely back to him. “It’s - It happened. And it was rough for a while, but…” He shrugs. “It was also a relief, I think. In some ways. And that’s a terrible thing to say about your mother dying, I know, but… Well, you hear all the tapes. I assume you heard that one too.

“I did,” Jon says. “And if I’d known - I’d -” He blows out a breath and he is close enough that Martin can feel the warm puff of it against his own lips. “I - I wish I’d been kinder to you, Martin.”

Martin makes a noncommittal sound. There are so many things that he regrets in hindsight, missed opportunities and naive assumptions. So many mistakes. He lets out a long, slow exhale that flutters the lock of hair falling across his face. “You’re kinder to me now,” he says eventually. And that doesn’t make it okay, doesn’t erase all the cruel slights and thoughtless dismissals, but it’s different now. _They’re_ different now.

“Do you - “ Jon starts and then breaks off, hesitating. His voice used to drip with arrogant derision, every word a blow, but now it’s all pauses and false starts, like’s terrified of saying the wrong thing. And perhaps he is, now, power crackling beneath every question if he wants to know the answer badly enough. “I could - I could tell you something else, if you like. About - about the Buried, or…?”

And maybe… maybe it doesn’t matter, all the things that Martin missed, every weary line on Jon’s face that he doesn’t know the provenance of. Maybe it’s enough to just have this, now - the warm space between them in the dark, the distant whistle of the wind over the hills, the steady rise and fall of their own breaths. Maybe he doesn’t know every tiny detail of Jon’s life, but maybe he doesn’t need to, anymore.

“You don’t have to,” Martin says. “I - if you want to talk about it, or anything else, I’ll listen, but I think… I think maybe it’s okay to let the past… stay there.”

“Oh,” says Jon, tone sharpened with surprise. Martin can’t blame him; he’s making an effort not to Know the source of Martin’s immediate 180. “I thought you wanted -”

“I did.” Martin reaches across the scant space between them to clasp Jon’s hands in his. “And I do. Know you, I mean.”

“Do you though?” Jon says. “How much do we really know about each other. I - When we were in the Lonely -”

“I saw you,” Martin interjects. “I saw you, and you saw me, and all the details are just… details.”

“I like details,” Jon says a bit petulantly, and Martin laughs.

“I know,” he says, tugging Jon’s hands up to his mouth so he can press a kiss to them. “Do you see? I know. I already know.”

“That’s not the same, though.” Jon laces his fingers with Martin’s and Martin holds their joined hands against his heart, pumping with a steady beat of _I know, I know, I know_.

“No,” says Martin, “but it’s enough.”


End file.
